Turbulent waters soothe the gypsy, calming and evoking blue myth mystery. The maudlin, tumultuous sea, her wishing wells of fragile glass trinkets, forgotten treasure, and pools of sunken love, long discarded. The ocean and her black ink mystery whisper in tongue, tales only I can decipher. The beach house perched precariously on a bluff, is blurred and out of focus. Drifting
Jawbreaking, aching, stunning poetry set to music. Do you get stuck on a song? I do, and I love it. “My lover’s got humour She’s the giggle at a funeral Knows everybody’s disapproval I should’ve worshipped her sooner If the heavens ever did speak She’s the last true mouthpiece Every Sunday’s getting more bleak A
"Harrison looks at her loves, and knows, instinctively. This, this is it. She’d searched the vast landscape, without a map, the rough, scary terrain swallowing her whole. Harrison’s dusty, torn backpack pushed aside, on a shelf in the attic. Twenty years, ache and itch all gone. No running. Destination arrived. Despite the pit stops, fires, sinkholes, pimps, mistakes, lone railways and scars. It was worth it. The backyard lit up like a redneck Christmas, Harry didn’t mind. “I’m hungry, let’s get this show on the road. Addie, bring the radio. You can play your song, baby. As loud as you like.” Let There Be. Light. Let There Be. Family. Let There Be. Love."
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…one must be more specific There is beauty in ice sculptures, black leaves, sand granules and zebra mussel shells Someone carved a number into the willow 251 I wonder what it meant and how long it’s become piece of the bark Are they dead and buried, the secret etched inside the tree’s history? I cannot say 251 I had